Lauri ran.
Not the clumsy sprint of a man fleeing danger,
but the desperate, stumbling escape of someone being hunted by a god.
The ground pitched and buckled beneath him as the grove collapsed into shards of crystal and soil. He leapt over splintered roots, slid across fractured earth, and narrowly avoided a falling qi‑glass trunk that exploded on the ground beside him like a pillar of shattered moonlight.
Behind him, the sky-beast roared.
The air convulsed under the sound.
Birds—those strange, long‑winged creatures that had circled the triple suns—fell from the sky like dead leaves. The sunlit clouds above dimmed to ash‑gray as the tear writhed wider, its edges bleeding shadow.
Yanmei staggered behind Lauri, clutching their ribs but refusing to slow.
"Don't look back!" they shouted.
As if he needed to.
The ground shook.
Something massive hit the earth behind them—
a claw, a limb, a piece of the monstrous form pushing its way fully into this realm.
Lauri didn't dare look.
He ran until his lungs burned and his vision blurred at the edges.
But the thread in his chest pulled taut again—
a leash the beast could yank at any time.
It pulsed painfully with each heartbeat:
Mine.
Mine.
Mine.
"No—!" he gasped, clutching at his sternum. "Not again—"
The thread twisted sharply, forcing his body to lurch sideways.
Yanmei saw it happen.
With a raw, guttural cry, they sprinted beside him and shoved him forward, breaking the thread's pull enough that he regained his footing. Their hair—black streaked with frost—whipped behind them as they forced their qi to stabilize their own stumbling steps.
"Fight it!" Yanmei snarled. "Anchor yourself!"
"To what?!"
"To ANYTHING! Nature, emotion, memory—pick something and hold it!"
He tried.
He reached for Finland —
cold air, still lakes, the stubborn peace of winter.
It worked for a heartbeat.
Then the thread ripped again.
He nearly fell.
Yanmei grabbed his arm, yanking him upright. Sweat dripped from their brow; their breathing was ragged.
"This way!" Yanmei barked. "Toward the ridge!"
They veered left, toward a towering rock formation jutting from the earth like the spine of a buried titan. The slope was steep, uneven, and strewn with broken crystal debris—but it was the only elevation nearby.
Yanmei leapt up the first ledge with practiced ease.
Lauri followed, scrambling, slipping, gasping. Rocks scraped his palms. Frost stung his throat with every breath. But fear drove him—real fear, primal fear, the kind he had never felt in Finland's quiet woods.
Suddenly the ground trembled violently.
Yanmei spun, eyes widening.
"JUMP!"
The world behind them detonated.
A tendril the width of a birch tree slammed into the base of the ridge, ripping it from the earth. The shockwave shot upward, blasting shards across Lauri's back. He stumbled, nearly falling off the ledge—
Yanmei grabbed his wrist.
Their fingers dug in like iron.
"I said don't look back," they hissed.
"I wasn't planning to!"
"Good."
They pulled him upward as the ridge groaned under their feet.
Another tremor.
The beast was climbing after them.
Not with grace.
Not with the silent predation of a spirit-beast.
But with obscene confidence —
because nothing in this world could rival its birthright.
The sky-dark mass tore more of reality open as it rose.
The tear widened.
Shadow poured out like ink spilling across paper.
Yanmei pulled Lauri to the next ledge.
"Higher! We need height!"
"Why?"
"Because some techniques only work when heaven can hear them!"
He didn't know what that meant.
He didn't care.
He climbed.
Behind them, the beast's full head emerged from the tear at last—
a monstrous shape crowned with broken horn‑ridges and eyes that glowed like frozen stars.
It saw him.
It smiled.
Not with joy.
Not with cruelty.
With recognition.
"NORTHERN SOUL."
The words hammered the ridge, sending dust cascading down its cracks.
Yanmei snarled and drew their sword—though their hand shook as they did.
The blade flickered.
Dim.
Too dim.
They didn't have enough qi left.
They didn't have enough strength left.
And still—they planted themselves between Lauri and the encroaching shadow.
Lauri reached the final ledge, panting, and turned just in time to see the sky-beast extend another tendril—this one sharp as a spear, lined with spines like obsidian barbs.
It was aimed directly at his heart.
Yanmei blurred forward—
Too slow.
The tendril struck.
A sharp, violent crack split the air—
And Lauri's world turned white—
But it wasn't pain.
It wasn't death.
It was memory.
The sauna.
The stones.
The glow.
Mei's voice saying his name like a promise…
For a moment, the thread pulsed with her warmth.
And the tendril veered.
Not away.
But downward.
It slammed into the ridge below Lauri's feet, blasting stone into the sky and tearing a hole in the mountainside.
Yanmei froze.
Lauri froze.
The beast froze.
Because the deflection had not come from Yanmei.
It had come from something else.
Something… answering the thread.
A new voice whispered through the air:
"…Found you…"
A voice like Mei's—
But layered with something deeper.
Older.
The sky-beast hissed, twisting its gaze upward sharply.
Yanmei stiffened. "No… not now…"
Lauri clutched his chest.
The thread inside him thrummed —
not in fear,
not in pain,
but in recognition.
A second tear began to form above the ridge.
Smaller.
Sharper.
Cleaner.
A tear filled with jade‑white light.
The sky-beast recoiled violently, snarling.
Yanmei's eyes widened. "Lauri—GET BACK!"
He stumbled as the ridge shook again.
Above him, the second tear split open—
And something stepped through.
Someone.
Her silhouette glowed like a reflection caught in moonlit water.
For a moment, the world forgot how to breathe.
The second tear unfurled above the ridge like a petal of moonlit silk, its edges glowing with jade‑white radiance that pushed back the shadows. The air hummed differently here — not the heavy, crushing resonance of the sky‑beast, nor the cold echo of ancient debts.
This light felt alive.
Warm.
Intentional.
The silhouette stepping through was unmistakable, even though she looked nothing like she had in Helsinki's gentle café glow.
She wore a flowing mantle of white and pale green, threaded with runes that shifted like drifting snowflakes. Her long black hair rose and fell with unseen currents of qi, as if the air itself bowed to her presence. The jade bookmark she had once used so casually now hovered at her shoulder, glowing like a small moon.
Mei.
Except she wasn't quite Mei.
This was someone who walked between stories as easily as breathing.
Yanmei's eyes widened in shock — not awe, not recognition, but pure survival instinct.
"No…" Yanmei whispered. "A Realm‑Walker."
The sky‑beast recoiled as if struck. Its tendrils thrashed in the air, shredding clouds, carving troughs into the torn sky. Its colossal body trembled.
Not in rage.
In fear.
Because the second tear was something even it did not want to face.
Mei's gaze swept the ridge — calm, clear, but carrying an undercurrent of fierce resolve. When her eyes met Lauri's, the thread in his chest responded instantly.
A surge of warmth.
A shock of recognition.
A whisper of relief.
She extended a hand toward him, fingers trembling not with weakness, but with suppressed urgency.
"Lauri," she breathed, voice steady despite the chaos.
"You need to step away from him."
Him?
Lauri blinked, confused.
Then realized:
She wasn't addressing the sky-beast.
Her eyes were focused past it — at something deeper.
At the debt.
At the ancient will behind the creature.
Yanmei staggered forward, raising their sword with both hands despite the pain ravaging their body.
"Realm‑Walker!" Yanmei shouted. "Stay back! This is our fight! Our sect has claim—"
Mei raised a single finger.
Yanmei froze mid‑stride.
Not physically.
Not forced.
Just… stopped.
As if the sheer intent in her gesture pressed upon them like the weight of an avalanche.
"Your sect can claim nothing here," Mei said softly. "Not this thread. Not this candidate. Not this fate."
The sky-beast hissed, its obsidian scales flaring with crackling light.
"YOU SHOULD NOT BE HERE, WALKER."
Mei floated forward a few steps, her feet barely touching the ridgeline.
"And yet here I am."
The beast roared — a sound that tore the clouds into bleeding shreds.
"YOUR REALM HAS NO CLAIM ON HIM EITHER!"
Mei's expression remained calm — but her eyes flashed, sharp as ice cutting sunlight.
"You misunderstand."
Her voice rang like a bell struck in a frozen temple.
"This thread is not your claim to enforce. It is not mine to possess. It is not the heavens' to demand."
She extended her hand toward Lauri again.
"It is his."
The thread inside Lauri burst into light.
It connected him and Mei like a bridge of aurora and jade, humming with raw possibility. His chest burned — not painfully this time, but with a fierce heat that felt like waking up in the heart of a bonfire.
The sky-beast reared back, shaking the ridge.
"HE IS BOUND BY AN ANCIENT OATH!"
Mei's voice softened — but the softness was stronger than the beast's roar.
"No," she whispered.
"He is bound by choice. And he has not made it yet."
Lauri fell to his knees, clutching his chest.
Past, present, and something deeper rippled through him like a storm of mirrors.
The ridge shook violently under him as the two forces — the sky-beast and Mei — pulled at the thread from opposite ends.
Yanmei crawled to his side, shielding him with their body.
"You must decide!" Yanmei shouted. "NOW! The thread won't survive two wills!"
"I don't— I don't understand—!" Lauri gasped.
"You don't have to!" Yanmei coughed blood. "Just CHOOSE!"
Mei's voice cut through the storm like a whisper carried directly to his soul.
"Lauri… look at me."
He did.
Her eyes were different now — deeper, fiercer, filled with hundreds of unspoken truths he wasn't ready to hear. Yet her gaze held him like an anchor in a world determined to tear him apart.
"You're not bound by his past," she said.
"And not by my future."
Her hand trembled again.
"You're bound only by what you decide to be."
The sky-beast roared, lunging.
Yanmei screamed: "LAURI!"
Mei cried: "Don't let him choose for you!"
The ridge split.
The tear widened.
And the thread in Lauri's chest snapped—
Not broken.
Not severed.
But freed.
A shock of light exploded from him — jade, aurora, and pure white merging into a single blazing spiral. It surged upward, striking the sky with the force of a comet.
The sky-beast howled, recoiling violently.
Mei shielded her eyes.
Yanmei collapsed to the ground.
Lauri rose slowly to his feet.
Not lifted.
Not dragged.
But standing on his own.
The thread pulsed in his chest like a newborn star.
And for the first time since entering this world—
It belonged to him.
The sky-beast hissed, its shadow twisting wildly.
"IMPOSSIBLE."
Mei's smile trembled — a rare, fragile expression.
"You made your first tempering," she whispered. "Your own."
Lauri blinked, breath shaking. "What… what did I just do?"
Neither Yanmei nor Mei had time to answer.
Because the sky-beast shifted its colossal body, preparing one final, devastating strike — a strike meant not for Lauri alone…
…but for all three of them.